The Wrong Man

57

Patrick Cahill watched the majestic sight of the Saturday-morning sun appearing over the lake, while he clutched in his hand the gun that he would use to kill Jason Kolarich.

He stood at ground level, near the grass embankment to the highway, keeping his breathing even, awaiting the word through his earpiece. He had stretched and restretched his limbs. He was on high alert, realizing that he’d only have about thirty, maybe forty-five, seconds’ notice that Jason Kolarich was on his way down the ramp and through the tunnel, coming toward Cahill.

His partner, Dwyer, was serving as the marker. He was parked on Ash a half-block down from the ramp. Dwyer would tell Cahill via the earpiece when he first spotted Kolarich, and then when he was heading down the ramp.

The tunnel was where it would happen. The cover of darkness and complete privacy made it the perfect choice. Cahill would start jogging into the tunnel from the direction opposite Kolarich. If Kolarich saw him standing still, essentially lying in wait, it would raise his radar. But seeing a fellow runner come jogging into the tunnel would seem perfectly normal to him.

Cahill hopped around, did some high-knees in place, worked out the nerves. He checked his watch. It was just after seven now. The sun had reared its head, bathing him in warm light, the color of the sky beginning with a burst of orange at the horizon and fading into pinks and reds as it moved upward.

By seven-fifteen, the sun had fully shown its shape over the water. By seven-thirty, the sky reminded him of rainbow sherbet. But where the fuck was Kolarich?

“Sleeping in on a Saturday?” Cahill said.

“Maybe.”

By eight o’clock, Cahill didn’t give a flying fuck about the sunrise anymore. By eight-thirty, he wasn’t sure what to do, because the lakefront was beginning to swell with joggers and bikers and skaters and speed-walkers. Didn’t they realize it was thirty degrees out here?

“Dammit. This is all fucked now.”

“Should I go by his house?” Dwyer asked.

“What good would that do?”

“Okay. Then what’s plan B?”

“There isn’t a fucking plan B. I was told this guy is like clockwork, running along the lake at dawn. You think he took a different route?”

“I don’t know. Probably we should wait, right?”

Cahill looked around. Joggers and bikers and skaters and walkers aside, the tunnel would still be dark and, hopefully, empty, thus remaining viable as a kill spot. He’d have to improvise. Once he got word about Kolarich from Dwyer, he’d have to quickly assess the situation and determine whether it was still workable.

At nine o’clock, Dwyer said into Cahill’s earpiece, “There’s a traffic lady handing out tickets. I have to move. It’s thirty-minute parking here.”

“Great.”

“I’ll do a lap and come back around.”

Yeah, thought Cahill, and let’s hope Kolarich doesn’t choose that window of time to come barreling down Ash and through the tunnel.

At nine-thirty, a police squad car lazily cruised along the beach, passing directly by Cahill about fifty feet away. Cahill made a big point of stretching to not arouse their attention.

“Enough,” he said. “Come pick me up, Dwyer. It’s time to come up with a plan B.”